The Snow Globe
by The13thArcana
Summary: Alfred F. Jones is the average American teenager, save the fact he's bored with life. Everything changes, however, when he meets a lonely spirit with a bloody past, intent on posessing him...New account (hyuga-hime), story re-uploaded.
1. The Box

_**Disclaimer: Don't own anything. **_

_**A/N: As embarrassing as it is to admit, I forgot the password to my original account. I meant to update this story, but no matter how many things I tried, it simply wouldn't let me in, so I had to create another account and repost the story. To those still reading, thank you; and thank you again for being patient. To new readers, enjoy!**_

Alfred is bored.

He sighs loudly, but the sound is lost in the cacophony of his surroundings. Starbucks is unusually rowdy today, and he grumbles moodily to himself while pulling out his cell for the twentieth time. He flips it open, and is unsurprised to see no new text messages.

Annoyed, Alfred sets his phone down with a little more force than necessary and looks around. There is no sign of his girlfriend, or anyone else he knows, and the lack of company only serve to strengthen his ire.

"Where is she?" he mutters angrily. Rose was not one to be late, about _anything_, and if she was she would at least _call…_

_If she's not here in five minutes, I'm gone,_ he thinks to himself. He has been sitting in the booth for more than an hour, and though he's sent texts and left numerous voice mails, he has yet to receive a reply. Sighing again, he tries to ignore the stare of a particularly pretty young woman who sits nearby. Her eyes burn into the side of his head, and it is only the fact he adores his girl that stops Alfred from turning to meet the woman's gaze.

"C'mon, Rose…"

Three minutes later, to his great relief, his phone vibrates loudly. The blonde hastily flips it open, his eyes scanning the words of the text with growing disbelief.

_**Al, so srry! Smthin came up, cant be there rite now. Ill make it up to u later tonite! ;)**_

Alfred feels his jaw clench as he sets the phone down, not even bothering to reply. He knows if he does he won't be able to stop himself from saying some very mean things, and he is in no mood to argue with Rose. She has a tendency to cry a lot whenever they fight; he hates making people cry, however inconsiderate they might be.

Still.

_She couldn't have told me this shit an _hour_ ago?_ He thinks to himself, absently leaving a few dollars on the table as he stands. _My day off, and I'm sitting around looking like an ass in Starbucks…_

The door shuts loudly behind him as he turns and walks down the street. It's a Saturday, and aside from no school, it's also a break from a long week of hauling random stuff to and fro. He looks forward to his Saturdays, and to spend the first part of one waiting for an absentminded girlfriend when he could be _sleeping…_

_Calm down, Al. It was probably really important, _a little voice says in his mind.

Well what the fuck was she doing that she couldn't have texted him fifty-five minutes ago?

Alfred rubs at his eyes, narrowly avoiding stumbling into a passing woman. It's no use being mad, really. He knows the moment Rose turns those eyes on him he'll be putty in her well-manicured hands, and the sleepy blonde finds he doesn't mind that idea as much as he should. Yawning widely, he stops and leans against a streetlamp, trying to decide what to do with his day.

He's already up, so there's no use going back to sleep, and though he looks around at the little shops and pharmacy stores, there's nothing he sees that really interests him. His anger is starting to fizzle out, replaced once again by boredom - Alfred _hates_being bored.

The traffic light turns red. He crosses the street, scrolling through his contacts. Antonio told him the weekend before he's going out with some friends, and Francis is probably out molesting somebody. He doesn't really like Yao, and Arthur, his best friend, is out of town for the week. Feliks is alright, but makes him uncomfortable. He has a feeling if he calls Toris to hang out, Feliks will also tag along. Alfred is just about to give up hope when his eyes find one name he missed.

"Mathew!"

Wiping absently at his forehead (it's hot today!), the bespectacled blonde hurriedly clicks on the name, waiting impatiently for his twin to pick up as he walks. The sun beats down brightly overhead – he wonders what possessed him to wear his bomber jacket, of all things, today. Alfred quickly sheds it and has just tied its arms around his waist when he hears Mathew's voice in his ear.

"_What?"_

The young man pouts at his brother's snappish tone. "Dude, what crawled up your butt today? I just wanted to say hi to my bestest bro…"

He makes it so that his voice sounds hurt, and is unsurprised when Mathew sighs wearily on the other end. _"What, Alfred? What was so important you had to wake me up?"_

Alfred glances down at his watch. "Matt, it's 10:30. This is around the time you usually get up, anyway."

"_So?"_

"C'mon, let's hang out!"

There is a brief silence, in which Alfred swears he can hear his brother rubbing at his temples.

"_**No."**_

There is a click, followed by the monotone buzz of the dial tone. For the second time that day, Alfred stares at his phone in disbelief. He pauses on the sidewalk, ignoring the curious stares from passersby as he redials Mathew's number.

He picks up on the third ring.

"_**What?"**_

"Did you just hang up on me?"

Alfred's boredom is relieved for the next ten minutes as he and his twin exchange insults. It is only when Mathew's start to become particularly scathing that he calls a truce, only to be ignored by his brother, who is too lost in his rant to hear him.

"_-egotistical, self-righteous, judge-mental, _idiot_ I have ever had the displeasure of speaking to-"_

The blonde quickly snaps his phone shut, effectively silencing his brother's sharp words.

_Guess Matt's not a morning person either…geez. _He scratches his head, sighing for what seems like the umpteenth time today. Greenford, Virginia is a small town, but surely there's _something_ worth doing, right? He looks around one last time and briefly considers going into Malgreens, just because, when something else catches his eye.

There, in the large alleyway directly across from him, is a large sign that says, in bold black letters,

**THE VARGAS' BROTHERS' SHOP OF MAGICAL MAYHEM, GRAND OPENING!**

Alfred frowns.

"What kind of grand opening takes place in an _alley?"_

Not a smart business move, from what he can see. Still, the young man's interest is piqued - he eagerly crosses the street and makes his way toward the sign. Up close, he sees an arrow pointing him further down the alley, and he follows the directions. Soon he is standing at the entrance of a large shop. Its windows are wide and made of glass, and the inside looks warm and welcoming. He can vaguely see shapes moving about. Perhaps he isn't the only one to notice the sign?

Alfred steps closer to one of the windows and peers in, his eyes widening in awe at the many trinkets and gadgets he sees. He has never believed in magic – that's more Arthur's style – but the blonde finds himself impressed with the things he sees. An old box, carved around the sides with a language he can't read, particularly fascinates him, and his nose presses closer to the glass to get a better look.

"That's a music box."

Alfred jumps. Whipping his head in the direction of the cheerful voice, he is surprised to see a small, slightly older young man leaning out the doorway of the shop. His hair is auburn, like autumn leaves, with an odd little curl sticking out, and his eyes are a warm hazel that stares curiously at him. Alfred plucks at the collar of his t-shirt, embarrassed.

"Ah...sorry."

He doesn't know why he's apologizing, but the young man smiles at him. "There's nothing to be sorry for! You can come in and look, if you want to."

He wants to say no, but there is something about the sweetness of the other's expression that makes him say, "Sure."

The auburn-haired man beams at him, and before Alfred knows what is happening, he's tugged inside the shop. As the door closes behind them, he looks around and is surprised at the number of people he sees milling about.

"Ve~! Look, Romano, another customer!"

Alfred notices a slight accent in the older man's voice, and opens his mouth to ask about it when another man comes up to them. The blonde is startled at how similar he is to the first man; aside from the hair, which is a darker color, and the angry scowl on his face, they are nearly identical. The new man speaks angrily in (Is that Italian?) a language Alfred doesn't know, and the Auburn-hair shrinks at the angry flow of words. He begins to grow angry at the scowling little man. How could anyone yell at someone who is so obviously nice?

Alfred moves to say something in defense of the first man when the other abruptly stops. It seems he has finally noticed the bespectacled blonde, for he turns from what is probably his twin and stares at the taller male, his scowl fading to shock, and then a slight frown.

"You came to buy?"He says gruffly, in English. His voice is much deeper than his brother's. Alfred is about to say no when he glances at Auburn-hair. He looks like he's sulking. "Um…yeah. Yeah, I did."

The shorter man nods, mostly to himself. After a moment, he turns and walks away, gesturing for the younger man to follow. Alfred does, and Auburn-hair moves with him. As he is led behind the check-out counter and into a room further back, the small man beside him whispers, "I'm sorry about my brother. He's very mean sometimes, but he's also very nice."

Alfred finds that very hard to believe, but keeps his mouth shut as the other continues, "I'm Feliciano Vargas. Romano and I manage this shop together."

_Feliciano, huh? Definitely Italian. _

"Nice to meet you, Feliciano. I'm Alfred Jones."

He reaches and shakes hands with the Italian, who smiles brightly back at him.

"Ahem."

The other Italian has led them into a small, dark room. It's cramped to the ceiling with shelves filled with all sorts of odd little things, many of them jars containing items that make his stomach queasy; snakes, eggs too large to be from chickens, what looks like an eel, and he could swear that one at the very back has an eyeball in it…

Boxes decorate the floor, filled with things the brothers have yet to fully unpack, and the entire wall to his right is shelved with scrolls, old and yellowed like the ones he's seen in movies. Romano is standing in the center of the room, and in his hands is a velvet box. It is large, and the dark-haired Italian holds it away from his body like it's contaminated with something.

"Here," he says harshly, forcefully shoving the box in a surprised Alfred's arms. He opens his mouth to make a sound of protest when it emits a powerful _thrum. _The vibration is so strong he nearly drops the item. There is a moment of silence, in which Alfred stares at the thing in surprise. He looks up to glare at Romano, but the older man is not looking at him. His gaze is fixed on the box, and now that Alfred looks closely he can see there is fear in the other's brown eyes.

"_Fratello?" _Feliciano says softly.

Romano ignores him. Slowly, he looks at Alfred.

Alfred doesn't like the look.

"What is this?" he says, trying not to sound angry. He'll never admit it, but Romano is starting to scare him - not to mention the older man had shoved the thing at him so harshly the breath had nearly been knocked from his lungs.

"It's a snowglobe," Romano says quietly, "and it's yours now. Free of charge."

Alfred looks down at the box.

A snowglobe?

Sure, he likes the little things, but he's not sure he wants any part of whatever is making the dark-haired Italian so pale.

"What if I don't want it?"

Romano's face tightens. "Take it."

Feliciano steps forward. "Fratello, do you really mean to give away the –"

"Si," he says sharply and, turning to his brother, whispers something lowly in Italian.

Feliciano says something in reply, glancing at Alfred as he does so.

"Sei il fratello sicuro?"

"Si. Questo e il modo in cui deve essere."

Alfred watches, confused, as the two Italian brothers turn to him. Romano's expression is a cross between pitying and wary, while Feliciano looks on him with even greater curiosity than before.

Feeling awkward, Alfred wonders when his day took a turn for the weird side. He looks down at the box, his eyes finding the silver clasp that is holding it closed. Eager to distract himself from the stares of the twins, he moves to open it.

"No!"

Romano's voice is shrill, his eyes wide. "You can't open it _here!_"

"And why not?"

"Because-"

"Romano, you're scaring him." Feliciano turns and smiles apologetically at Alfred. Touching his brother's arm, he says, "I'm sorry about this, Alfred. My brother…sometimes he can see bits of the future, and he says you were meant to have the snowglobe."

The blonde feels his eyes widen. Glancing at the scowling Romano with newfound interest, he mutters, "The…the future? Really?"

Had anyone else told him this, he'd have laughed in their face, but he has a hard time imagining Feliciano as a liar. As the Italian nods solemnly, Alfred decides the shorter man must actually believe what he's saying.

_He does look gullible…_

"He doesn't believe you, Feliciano." Feliciano straightens. "Oh, but it's true! Tell him, Romano –"

The dark-haired Italian waves his brother away, face darkening as he looks at the bespectacled blonde.

"Look. You don't have to believe us. Personally, I don't give a shit if you do. The snowglobe is yours now, you touched it. Be grateful I'm not charging anything."

Alfred frowns. "What does me touching it have to do with anything…?"

Romano looks away. "You'll see," he mutters.

Without another word he leaves the room, and Alfred has no choice but to follow him out. The shop is bright compared to the room he just left, and he raises a hand to rub at his eyes. The box thrums quietly in his hands. Alfred wonders what is causing it.

He turns to speak to Feliciano, but the Italian is looking worriedly at his brother. After glancing between the two of them, the blonde decides its time to go. He would've liked to talk to the auburn-haired man some more - he has a feeling they'd be great friends if given the chance –but it is clear he wants to speak to his brother about something, probably him. With a little sigh, he says,

"Well, it's time for me to go."

Feliciano starts, as though he'd forgotten he was there, and begins to apologize.

"I'm really, really sorry," he says, "I know we must seem very weird –"

Alfred waves a hand. "It's fine, really. I was bored before, this was a welcome distraction!"

Feliciano smiles.

The two talk for a couple of minutes, and Alfred happily exchanges his number with the slighter man. After agreeing to hang out sometime, the two part ways, Alfred glowing with the knowledge that he's made a new friend.

Ten minutes later, the blonde lets himself into his shared apartment, sighing blissfully at the cool gust of air that greets him as he opens the door. He happily drops his jacket on the floor, sets the velvet box on the couch and makes his way to the kitchen, where he pulls out a half-eaten cheeseburger from the fridge and warms it up in the microwave.

It's quiet, but that's to be expected. Francis has probably come by and picked Mathew up for…whatever they do on Saturdays. He's never liked silence, but the time to himself is worth it. Plopping heavily on the faded sofa he switches on the TV and flicks through the channels, frowning when he finds nothing of interest. Finally, he settles on SpongeBob.

"F is for friends who do stuff together…"

Humming along with the tune, Alfred tilts his head and notices the little velvet box nearby. He stares at it for a moment, then turns back to the television, swallowing the last of his burger. A moment later his gaze switches back to the item. He doesn't know why, but it's bothering him, just sitting there.

The blonde moves a pillow over it to block the thing from sight, and resumes watching the episode. It is not until the next show starts that he feels something is off. Glancing around uneasily, he tries to shake the feeling he's not alone. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and seconds later, so does Alfred.

"Mathew?" he calls out quietly. Silence answers him. His twin's keys are missing from their usual spot on the key rack, but Alfred suddenly doesn't like the feeling he's alone anymore, and hopes his brother misplaced them. A shudder rolls down his spine. The room had been wonderfully cool before, but the goosebumps rising along his skin alert Alfred to the fact the temperature is dropping.

"Mathew?" he calls again, desperately hoping he's wrong, that his quieter counterpart is actually in his room sleeping. Alfred will wake him up, and he'll be angry, but after a few sugary words on Alfred's part he'll get up and make the two of them a huge stack of pancakes, and –

Alfred freezes as cold, cold fingers touch the skin of his neck.

He feels his eyes widen, his muscles tense as though to flee, yet he can do nothing but stand there, frozen, as the hand moves from his neck to his shoulder, gripping hard enough to leave bruises.

His heart pounds violently inside his chest, to the point he feels it will burst, and his blood pumps so loudly in his ears that he almost doesn't hear the voice at his ear, whispering things he doesn't understand. The hand tightens; he feels his skin tear beneath the fingers and warm blood slide down his shoulder.

A scream finally works its way out of his throat, shrill and terrified. Alfred shoves away from the entity with all his strength and bolts across the room, tripping over various items as he does so. Once in his own room he stumbles and falls, still screaming at the top of his lungs. Panicked, he staggers to his feet and slams the door with all his might. Alfred locks it, then pushes every piece of furniture excluding his bed in front of the door.

"Oh my God, oh my God…"

The blonde backs away and collapses on his bed, distractedly rubbing at his wounded shoulder. He's dreaming, he has to be dreaming…

The door shakes violently and Alfred screams. He scurries to the end of the bed, his back pressed against the headboard, eyes as round as saucers as they stare at the quivering wooden entrance to his room.

_This can't be happening._

Alfred is quiet when the door stops shaking. The new silence, to him, is as scary as the noise.

He waits for a long moment, afraid to breathe. As he sits he remembers days long past; of boogeymen and dark corners, and Arthur's scowling face

"_Honestly, Alfred. You're almost ten years old, grow up already. There's no such thing as monsters. Repeat it with me…"_

"There's no such thing as monsters," he whispers. Arthur's voice, annoyed and accented, gives him courage, and Alfred slowly, cautiously, stands. Clenching his fists to keep them from shaking, he edges toward the door, all the while whispering the phrase like a mantra.

"There's no such thing as monsters."

His voice, hushed and scared, is deafeningly loud in the silence, and he hears his heartbeat thundering in his ears again. A part of him is screaming for him to _run, run, run,_ but he ignores it. Slowly, his hands shaking, he moves his dresser to the side - then his wardrobe, his nightstand and work desk. Once the old wooden chair is moved aside, he simply stands there.

"There's no such thing as monsters."

Alfred knows that when he opens the door he won't see anyone, that the hand he felt digging into his back will have been a figment of his overactive imagination, just like all the other times in his past – a shadow confused with a creeping monster, a fluttering window curtain mistaken for a shimmery ghost.

His shoulder throbs, and Alfred can't help thinking that this is far more serious than mere tricks of the eye.

Holding his breath, the blonde reaches to unlock his door.

"There's no such thing as –"

_Whoom._

The door slams open so hard he can hear the air whistle. Alfred screams and throws himself back in time to avoid being hit, his back hitting the hard floor with a painful 'thump.'

He begins to cry, infuriated with himself at his inability to _move, _he's so scared. The blonde keeps his gaze on the floor as he sobs, unwilling to look up at the thing for fear of what he'll see. He waits with heaving breaths for those cold, cold fingers to dig into his flesh, but nothing happens.

After a long moment, when nothing grabs him, Alfred looks up to see only air in his doorway.

Getting to his feet, he looks around warily. His eyes are still wet with tears, but he brushes them away. It takes him a while to gather the courage to step back into his living room. Nothing is there. Sniffling, he makes sure to turn on every light before he realizes the temperature has returned to normal. Everything is where he left it, save for the few things he knocked over in his haste to get away from…from _whatever_ it is that touched him…

Alfred shivers and scans his surroundings one last time. iCarly is playing on the TV, and his hamburger wrapper sits, discarded, on the couch. His eyes find the little velvet box he has yet to open, and he pauses. Tilting his head, a part of him briefly wonders if the box has anything to do with what just happened. The denser part of him scoffs at the idea.

_Feliciano's _way _too nice to give me something _haunted_…_

Still…

Alfred remembers the powerful thrum he felt earlier, and Romano's fearful eyes. He is wary as he approaches the box.

Reaching out, he hesitantly runs his fingers across the dark blue velvet, closing his eyes when his panic fades to a state of calm he can't remember ever feeling before.

_What...?_

Alfred feels his eyes drooping, his body relaxing. Confused, he pulls his hand away, and the feeling vanishes.

_That was weird._

Moving away from the box, he rubs at his eyes, still a little spooked. He hopes Mathew will return soon, that he might curl up with his twin and feel a little less scared.

"Aw, man. Man, man, man…." Alfred turns to enter his room. The whole incident has exhausted him, he's too afraid to look at his injured shoulder, and at the moment all he wants is to go to sleep. The possibility of a dream about hamburgers makes him feel a little better; he's already taken three steps towards the doorway when he pauses again.

Looking back, he sees the little box. Without really knowing why, he turns back and scoops it up in his hand, surprised at the warmth that shoots up his arm. Frowning at the little thing, he moves towards his door. The item thrums all the while, almost as though it were _happy_ or something…

_First it vibrates, then it makes me sleepy…_

By the time he's burrowed himself comfortably beneath the sheets, Alfred's fear has ebbed away to a stark wariness. The box's thrumming makes him feel better, so he holds it tight to his chest, trying to ignore the sting of his wounded shoulder_. Mattie will be home soon._ The thought gives him comfort. After what seems like a long, long time, his eyelids flutter shut. Alfred sighs happily as his conscious retreats to the world of dreams.

He doesn't feel the hand gently caressing his cheek.

As the ghost leans down, the box glows in Alfred's arms.

**A/N: Like a lot of people on this site, I'd like to be a writer someday. You can help me by pointing out any mistakes I might've missed - as well as any thing I can improve. I've decided not to change the style - ("he is" rather than "he was")- because I already typed up the next chapter like this, and if I had to go back and change it all I'd get frustrated and lose interest in the whole thing, and I'm determined to finish this.**

**Anyway, reviews are appreciated!**


	2. The Giant

Chapter 2

He wakes to silence.

For a moment he's confused; usually he is awakened to the sound of clattering pots and the smell of pancakes as Mathew makes breakfast. Now he hears nothing, and instead of maple syrup there is a faint, oddly familiar scent that causes him to wrinkle his nose.

Alfred's first thought is alcohol. He has a tendency to drink too much and then crash, uninvited, at a friend's house till morning. It's a sound conclusion, but in his gut he feels it isn't right. He opens his eyes just a bit. His vision swims, and after a moment it focuses on the vaulted ceiling above, where a small, unlit chandelier gathers dusts.

_What…?_

Groaning, Alfred moves to sit up, only to freeze as his shoulder throbs with pain. It is the pain, faint but insistent, that causes him to remember.

Cold and ghosts and little velvet boxes rush back to the forefront of his memory. He shudders.

Alfred has always had a healthy fear of the supernatural, with spirits and the like at the top of his list. In his younger years, it had gotten to the point he had exasperated even his parents, who had taken him to counseling a few years ago. _That_ hadn't gone well; especially considering the counselor was a total douche who asked too many questions –

Shaking his head, Alfred rids himself of pointless thoughts. It isn't the first time he's woken up in a strange place, but something about this one unnerves him. It's quiet, for one. Too quiet. On top of that, the room is…cold. His heart begins to thump inside his chest.

Hadn't it been cold then, when those fingers bit into his shoulder? Hadn't it been silent, completely and utterly silent, when those whispers started at his ear? _Yes,_ a voice says from somewhere within his head. _It was._

The hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recalls the traumatizing encounter, his first meeting with a -

_Don't say it, _he tells himself. _None of it was real, anyway. Probably Mathew, that guy loves to fuck with me. _

It's possible. Mathew is clever – it would've been easy for him to pull all those stunts to try and scare him, or hire someone who could. Alfred certainly wouldn't put it past him – the guy has a penchant for exacting revenge. Only, there's no revenge to take_. _He can't recall any recent slights he's dealt the moody Canadian, and his twin rarely does things without reason. Besides, whoever had been behind him had not just grabbed him; they'd done it with an incredible strength. He's sure if he looks there will be fingerprints, along what he imagines to be a hideous bruise, and that just isn't Mathew's style.

Who, then, had gripped his shoulder? Who had whispered those things in his ears, or made the temperature drop, or managed to slam open a door barricaded with all of his furniture? He's sure no one he knows is capable of those last two.

So who?

He wants to know, but at the same time he desperately doesn't.

_Ignorance is bliss_, his friend Arthur sometimes says, and for once Alfred agrees with him.

Breathing deeply, he plants his feet on the plush carpet and looks around. The room is large and tidy, with white walls and white floors and white furniture. The windows are hidden with finely woven curtains, and the bed, he sees, is dressed in a white comforter with a floral pattern. It's a nice room, overall, but he's not fond of the color scheme. It reminds him of a room in a hospital or something.

Uneasy, Alfred stands from the warmth of the bed and pads toward the door. He turns the old-fashioned doorknob, and is awed as the door swings open, for beyond lies an enormous living room, complete with a long ring of sofas, towering bookshelves, and an impressive chandelier. A grandfather clock stands directly across from him; just beside it a grand staircase spirals up beyond his vision.

Everything, save the grandfather clock, is white, just like the room he's woken up in.

Amazed, Alfred steps into the soft gray light. As he takes in his surroundings, he becomes more and more certain that this place doesn't belong to anyone he knows. It all seems too out of place; a better term would be 'old-fashioned.' There are no lamps, or light bulbs, only unlit candle holders. The silence is queer, almost eerie, and it gives the empty room a somewhat…haunted feel.

Such thoughts make him uneasy though, so he distracts himself by walking up to the grandfather clock. He's never seen one in real life before; he follows the swinging pendulum for a moment, fascinated, until something else catches his eye.

The windows are covered, but the little light he sees is gray, the kind you see on cloudy days, or when it rains. It was sunny before he went to sleep, and he can't remember seeing any clouds… Curious, Alfred goes to the curtain and pulls it aside.

…_What?_

He rubs at his eyes, but the sight doesn't change. He pinches himself, but a sharp pain tells him he's not dreaming, either.

Beyond the window, there is nothing but trees and snow. The snow, especially, is everywhere; it practically buries the trees, and the ground is nothing but white. Alfred has never seen so much of it, and for a moment he finds he can do nothing but stare.

_Where…where am I? _

Something soft and dark and beautifully sad fills his ears at that moment.

Startled, Alfred pauses, his head cocked to the side as the sound washes over him. It takes him a moment to realize it is _music, _for it is unlike anything he has ever heard. For a moment he is still, until, entranced, he moves toward the sound. His feet carry him out of the living room, through a finely furnished dining room and past what looks to be a study, until he stops just outside a grand set of doors. His head is foggy, his arms numb; there is only him, the haunting sound, and that awful, awful smell. What is it?

He needs to know.

Alfred's heart is thundering against his chest. His palms are sweaty, but the rest of him feels cool and light. He raises his hands to open the doors, but hesitates.

_What are you doing?_ A voice says sharply in his head. It sounds remarkably like Arthur's.

_Get away_, it says with a touch of hysteria. _Get away! Get away! __**Get away!**_

He opens the door.

A flood of light assaults his eyes; Alfred raises his arms as a shield, his head turned away from both the light and that odd smell.

It takes the blonde a moment to regain his senses, and when he does, he realizes the music has stopped. His arms are still raised; Alfred lowers them cautiously.

There is a long, long silence. Alfred uses it to gather what is left of his courage. That haunting melody has lured him here, guiding his footsteps and muddling his thoughts. He feels small and weak now, too afraid to even open his eyes. And it is _cold._

"You're awake."

Startled, Alfred's eyes snap open. They are instantly drawn to the figure sitting quietly in front of what looks to be a piano, its long fingers still splayed on the keys.

The young blonde steps back, wary. That soft, treacherous sound that brought him here could have only been played by a master; he was expecting an older, frailer, person…

This is no elder, but a young man – there is not a wrinkle on his face. And his hair - his hair is silver.

_Who has silver hair?_ Alfred wonders.

A tall window sits next to the piano, however – perhaps it is a trick of the light.

He tries to summon the same excuse when he finally looks the man in his eyes.

They are strange eyes. The man's expression is mild, but his eyes…they are feverishly bright as they look on him, and the blonde finds he doesn't like the look at all. Plus, they're purple.

Who has _purple eyes?_

Rubbing at the goose bumps on his arms, Alfred remains silent. He doesn't like this man – he doesn't like this place, period – and all he wants now is to get the hell out of wherever he is and eat a pancake. With maple syrup. And a nice square of butter on top –

Alfred's thoughts screech to a halt when the man rises from his seat.

The silver haired man is now, in Alfred's mind, a silver-haired giant. He is at least a foot taller than the blond himself - wider, too, with long legs and broad shoulders and big hands that could easily fit around his neck, or dig into his shoulder…

Sweat runs down his forehead as the giant tilts his head, those weird eyes boring into his own. The blonde is coming to a scary conclusion, but he brushes it aside when the man moves quietly to the other side of the spacious room and through a large door. The long, tanned coat he wears swishes around his knees like the ends of a dress, and his boots click loudly in the silence. Now that he's away from the window, the blonde sees the man's hair is really silver. Or maybe it's just a really light blonde…

A moment later he returns with two glasses in hand and a bottle of wine in the other. There is a table near the piano; it is there the man sits and empties the bottle, all of this without a word. When he's done, he turns to Alfred. The blonde has yet to move.

With a small smile, the giant says, "Come now, Alfred, I am nothing to be afraid of." He gestures to the seat across from him. "Sit with me."

The giant's voice is deep and soft, but there is a slight hoarseness to it, as though he hasn't spoken in a long time. Uneasy, the blonde looks back at the open doors. He briefly considers bolting out of the room, but something tells him it would be wiser to do as he is told. Slowly, Alfred crosses the room. The feeling that he is in danger intensifies with each step he takes from the entrance. The smell is stronger, too, and when he finally lowers himself into the stiff-backed chair he feels ready to puke.

Still smiling, the giant nudges the glass towards him. Alfred looks at it distrustfully. In all the scary movies he's forced himself to watch over the years, being drugged and waking up in a torture chamber is a popular theme. The wine is a dark red – it almost looks like blood.

Alfred stares at the glass, about to refuse, when he realizes something.

"You…I didn't tell you my name."

The giant smiles. Sipping steadily at his own drink, he replies, "I know many things."

"That's not an answer."

"It is for now."

The odd man ignores the younger man's glare and fiddles with the glass.

"I am glad to see you are awake," he says finally. "You were asleep for quite a while…I feared you would not wake up in time…"

_In time for what? _The blonde wants to ask, seething. Fear and unease have made him short-tempered, and the giant's refusal to explain himself isn't helping matters.

"Look," he says impatiently, "I don't know who you are, or what you want from me, but frankly I'm ready to get the hell out of here."

Taking brief satisfaction in the man's shocked expression, Alfred stands. There's only so much creepy he can take – he remembers the trees and snow outside, and a shiver runs down his spine.

_All of that was just an illusion,_ he thinks to himself, turning away from the stunned man before him. _It's not real, none of it._

_This is probably just a dream. _

The thought hits him like a bulleting truck. A dream – it explains everything! The odd surroundings, the giant man, the snow outside when it's supposed to be summer…

Energized by this new revelation, Alfred's fear melts away and he runs from the room, ignoring the low words behind him.

This is _his_ dream; nothing and no one can hurt him. His feet take him into a large room, decorated with the same old-fashioned flair of the one he just left. A large door carved with black wood stands just ahead.

The blonde has had lucid dreams before in his life, and he knows what to do. Closing his eyes, he imagines the door is an exit. When he opens it, he'll wake up.

Alfred hollers and sprints for the door, unheeding of the heavy steps behind him. He grabs hold of the knob, twists, _pulls..._

The door swings open with a loud creak.

Alfred is stunned into silence.

An icy gust of wind assaults his pajama-clad body, but his legs refuse to move.

For there is a storm outside – one of windy screams and swaying trees and falling, falling snow. Some of it blows into the house and gathers at his toes. Shivering, he looks down at it with disbelief.

_It's summer_, he tells himself. _This is a dream._

Was there ever a dream so cold?

He feels a presence at his back. A hand reaches past him and closes the door, then comes to rest on his injured shoulder.

"Fool." A voice whispers coldly in his ear. "Did you think to run away?"

The hand tightens, the voice chuckles, and suddenly Alfred _knows._

With a growing sense of horror at his own stupidity, the American tries to jerk away.

"You son of a bitch," he gasps, his shoulder throbbing with pain, "get away from me!"

"But we were not finished talking…"

Alfred opens his mouth to retort when he is flipped onto the floor. His back hits the wood so hard he feels the breath knocked out of him. He's still gasping for air when his arms are pinned on either side of his head. A heavy weight settles on his body.

It takes the blonde a long moment to breathe properly again. When he opens his eyes, purple hues stare back at him. They've darkened considerably.

"You…you're...crazy…"

Alfred pants as large fingers pet his hair.

The man – no, _ghost_, as Alfred's sure that's who he is now – ignores his words. He looks wistful, almost sad.

"I have waited a long time for someone like you to come along." His unusual eyes roam the other's face, as though they're seeing something the blonde himself is not. One hand, big and gloved, hovers above his face.

The ghost's expression is awed, and he whispers something in what Alfred believes is Russian.

"Dude," Alfred whispers back, warily eyeing the hand a few inches from his face, "what the hell are you doing?"

Again he is ignored.

Frustrated and confused, the American wriggles beneath the giant's hold. He's rarely bested when it comes to fights, but the ghost has him completely pinned down. He can't escape.

His panic grows at the thought. What if it wanted to finish what it started back in his apartment? What if it wrapped its fingers around his throat and _killed_ him?

He wasn't ready to die.

With a surge of desperation he throws his head back and, with all of his strength, brings it forward again, into the head of the giant.

Stunned, he shrinks back and clutches his head, howling with pain. Alfred is dizzy himself. Eventually he wills himself to his feet and stumbles away, grasping at random furniture for support. It's the first time he's ever head butted someone, and _**fuck**_it hurtsithurtsit_hurts…_

The American falls to the floor as the world spins around him. He hears a growl of rage, but his consciousness is already slipping away. A hunched shadow starts towards him, but Alfred can no longer move. His head throbs, but he feels warm. Warm and fuzzy.

The shadow's slow gait turns into a sprint, but before it can reach him the room melts away, replaced with blinding light and a familiar, calling voice…

"Alfred."

His head hurts.

"Hey."

It _really_ hurts. Like he banged it against a car or something.

"Alfred."

Actually, it's not just his head; his back kind of hurts, too. And his shoulder…_ow_…

"Alfred!"

"Dude, _what?_"

The blonde forces himself to sit up, cringing at the pain in his forehead. He must have imagined the back pain, although his shoulder really does hurt…

Mathew is kneeling next to his bed, glaring worriedly at him. "You're finally awake. Are you okay?"

Confused, Alfred replies, "Y…yeah. My head really….hurts…"

It is then he remembers. The house, the snow, the long-legged giant who had almost killed him…

Trembling, he jumps from his bed, ignoring the startled shout of his twin. His blonde head whips from side to side, taking in his surroundings. This is his room. It looks normal…

"What the hell is wrong with you, man?" Mathew looks wary. "If you wanted some Aspirin you could've just said so. Wait here." Muttering under his breath, the Canadian leaves the room.

The moment he's gone, Alfred walks to the nearest window and rips the curtain aside. For a moment he's scared he'll see snow, but it is sunny instead, and when he opens the window a gust of hot air assaults him. He laughs with relief.

"It was a dream."

Yes, that's all it was. A very realistic dream, but a dream, nonetheless. As Mathew returns, he looks at his shoulder.

The fingerprints are still there, but they look…darker. In the dream – or rather, nightmare – the man had gripped him there, again. Could that be the reason?

No, Alfred tells himself. That would make it real.

"Here." Mathew hands him two pills and a glass of Dr. Poppa. "That should get rid of your headache.

"Thanks."

Mathew watches him down the pills.

"What happened?"

Alfred wipes his mouth. "Huh?"

"You know what I mean." He gestures around the room, and Alfred sees that most of his furniture is still piled around the door from his makeshift barricade. Seeing it reminds him of that ghostly encounter. He doesn't want to remember that.

"I…It's nothing."

Mathew doesn't look convinced.

"Really?"

"Really."

Mathew's eyes narrow. "You know what? I don't even want to know. Just...fix it, okay?"

Rubbing his shoulder, Alfred mutters his agreement, and Mathew turns away. But then he pauses. Slowly, he turns back around, his eyes fixed on the other blonde's hand; or rather, the shoulder it was covering.

"Why are you doing that?"

Alfred stiffens. "Doing what?

"That. Rubbing your shoulder – what's wrong with it?"

The American steps back. "Oh – it's nothing. I just banged it, is all."

"Yeah, you look you're in pain."

He steps closer. "Let me see."

"What?"

"Move your hand."

"Mattie-"

But the Canadian is quick, and before his twin can do anything, he's already lifting the hand and examining the shoulder. His violet eyes widen.

"What…?"

Alfred jerks away. "It's fine, dude."

"That's not fine!" Mathew's face hardens. "Those are serious bruises; look at the size of those finger marks! Who the hell did that to you?"

"I… got in a fight."

Mathew crosses his arms with disapproval and Alfred silently applauds his genius.

"_Again? _It was those hosers from Greer, wasn't it? How'd you even run into them, anyway?"

Alfred shrugs.

Mathew sighs. "Look, I understand they're assholes, but you can't go through life punching every guy that looks at you wrong. It just doesn't work that way." He runs his hand restlessly through wavy blonde hair. "You know they're just jealous of you, right?"

Alfred hums in agreement. Greer is his school's most heated rival, especially when it comes to football. Their players are good, but Greenwich's are better, and the rival team hates them for it. As quarterback, he gets most of the insults, resulting in many heated confrontations, and those often escalate into savage fist-fights. He's learned to cool down somewhat, though.

Mathew doesn't know that, though, and the blonde is using that to his advantage.

"You're right, Mattie," he says quietly, looking at the floor. "I really need to learn to control my temper…"

The older boy immediately softens. "Al…"

"I'm sorry for worrying you, and I promise I'll try to do better. It's just…they make me so angry!"

Mathew steps toward him, unaware of the thunderous applause in Alfred's mind. He's a genius! Hell, he deserves, like, an Academy Award or something! Yeah, he feels a little bad about lying to his brother, but what else can he do? The truth is something Alfred's not even sure _he_ believes.

The Canadian pats his back, a comforting gesture. "It's alright, Al. I'm not mad. I just wish you were a little smarter sometimes."

He's gone and out the door before Alfred can reply, leaving the blonde to wonder if he's just been insulted.

"Oh, yeah."

Mathew pokes his head back in the room. "That little snow globe thing – in the box?"

Alfred feels a chill down his back, though he's not sure why. He remembers the look on that Italian man's face when he handed him the little box, and he wonders again if it has anything to do with what's happened.

"…Yeah," he looks around, "where is it?"

"Well, when I got back from Francis' you were holding it. I thought it might fall on the floor or something, so I set it on the counter."

He frowns. "There was something weird about it…where'd you get it, anyway?"

The thought of Mathew touching the music box unsettles him.

"Uh, some Italian place. Did the box do anything…weird…after you touched it?"

"What?"

"Ah…never mind. Sorry, I'm still a little groggy."

Mathew frowns. "Yeah, I can tell. Anyway, Arthur called. I told him you were sleeping. He wanted me to say 'hullo' and that he'll be back in a couple of weeks."

Alfred plops on his bed, his previous thoughts forgotten. "_Weeks?_ C'mon man, I won't function much longer without my angry Brit…"

Mathew laughs and walks away.

Rage.

He hasn't felt it in a long time, and he's forgotten how powerful an emotion it is. His fists are clenched, his teeth gritted, his blood boiling as he stares at the spot his prize has disappeared.

He wants to scream, to thrash and break and –

_No._

Instead he breathes. Slow and deep, each breath comes easier than the last until his anger has simmered down to stark disappointment. So _close..._he had hoped they'd have more time. How wonderful the boy had smelled…

Something awakens inside him at the thought; something he'd believed was dead.

Surprised, the Russian looks down at the bulge in his pants.

He would have to take care of that.

Sighing softly, he stands. The house is quiet again. He's used to it, yes, but the sound of something other than his piano is always welcome.

_No matter_, the Russian thinks to himself as he leaves the room, _he will be back. _

_I'll make sure of it…_

**A/N: I know, I know. 'Why didn't she mention Alfred was a quarterback, earlier?' This chapter was written very recently, and the idea just came to me. I couldn't find a way to put it in the first chapter without sounding awkward. That...and I am very lazy. Trust me, this is gonna play a more important part in the future. **

**Also, did I use the word 'hoser' right? I looked it up, but I'm still not sure. **


End file.
